to write about
by wegotmonobaby
Summary: Sherlock misses Moriarty who misses Sherlock. Even if he doesn't actually say it. Oneshot. Don't own, don't sue. Rated M. WARNING-INCREDIBLY GRAPHIC SEX. Slash. COMPLETE,


Sherlock tapped his fingers against the keys of his laptop lightly. Not hard enough to type anything; he had nothing to record, nothing of any import. Hadn't, since. Well. 'The less said about that, the better.'

And that was the trouble. No-one wanted to talk about it. John, didn't want to talk about it. Mycroft wanted to speak of nothing else, bringing him up until Sherlock left, stormed out in anger. Mycroft wouldn't understand or would understand implicitly and then this wouldn't be private anymore, wouldn't be his if he shared it like that. And every time he broached the subject with John, well, that's what he said. 'The less said the better.' Half laugh, like it was all some big forgotten joke that had happened to someone else. His soldier's shutters coming down, his face unresponsive and carefully blank. Normally followed by, 'I'm going to Sarah's tonight Sherlock. I won't be home. Don't wait up.' And Sherlock wanted to say, 'those three things you said mean the same thing,' and 'you're the least subtle person in the history of humanity,' and 'why are you so banal, so mundane,' and 'i wish you were him.'

His reactions were sadly in keeping with PTSD, except for the fact that he enjoyed remembering. Not so much the main event, but the sparring, the mental debate, finding him, teasing him, seeing him. He dreamt about it constantly, that beautiful, ridiculous moment when Jim had revealed himself. He was fucking glorious, all theatrical and pompous. All eyes and sneer and pretty words. Wrapped in an expensive suit, in the game, in madness. But the kind of madness that Sherlock understood because he too, was the same. Ok, not quite the same. Not exactly. But the same where it mattered. And in his darkest moments, he wondered what it would have been like if things had been slightly different. If he had had Moriarty from the start. If they were a team, a partnership, a perfectly matched pair. The world would tremble before them. They could have razed it to the ground, without thought.

Silly to think of it now. The man was gone. They'd taken his pink phone away, 'evidence.' As if the fucking idiots would trace him on it! If Jim Moriarty didn't want to be found.. No need to finish the sentence. He wished though, and this in itself was unusual because he wasn't one to wish, but he'd been distracted something fierce recently, and god, again, in keeping with PTSD, how fucking boring, but he wished he had some way of seeing him, some sign of him, some kind of sound bite so he could hear that clipped, ridiculous voice again.

And for the first time in a handful of years; stirrings of arousal. _'I will burn the heart out of you.' _And he had, he fucking had, though not in the way Sherlock had expected, not that he had any reason to expect anything with Jim, and he ached with it, with the need of him, to see him, Jesus. He didn't know how to, cope with this. Rubbed the flat of his palm absently against his cock, until he was half hard and half interested. His eyes fluttered closed around another memory, Jim's lips, the smirk on them as Sherlock had pointed John's service revolver at his head, the complete lack of surprise; fear. Like even then he'd known, of course he'd known. How could he not have read Sherlock's mind, as he wet his lips, as he redoubled his grip on the gun, palms sweaty, concern for John just, only just winning against sheer, unadulterated joy at this human that was him, but not him.

Loneliness. He palmed his cock harder through the front of his suit trousers, harder, but his interest had waned. He was still half hard, just couldn't be bothered, didn't want to wank to a memory of nearly dying because of a pretty man with a pretty mouth who had fucking left him here on his own.

He tucked his chair back into the desk, looked at the blank blog page, sighed. Clicked 'Home' out of nothing more than habit. He'd had a new comment on an old case. No need to direct to John's blog of the swimming pool incident; there wasn't one.

_'Sherlock. Don't you think you should save your mind for better things?' _

Then another, on a separate case.

_'Sherlock. You've disappointed Daddy.'_

And another.

_'Sherlock. I'm bored.'_

And a last, at last.

_'Sherlock. The pips. W. Common. As in I. 24/6. 12 in the AM.'_

When he got there, he marveled at the speed of his heart. It felt as though it was a separate entity, lodged in his chest for the time being, but temporary. Winn's Common. Easy, too easy, but he needed it, needed this, and wouldn't have cared if the man turned up at his goddamn flat with a bunch of carnations. He sat on a bench, cold. Glad he had his coat. The common was huge, but it didn't matter. He knew he'd been followed, had practically danced his way there to ensure he was never out of sight of his unknown would be assailant. He knew it wasn't him though. God, the anticipation. It spiked and spiked and he wondered if he'd be sick, if this was how the fucking plebs felt when they switched on their idiot boxes or fell in love or entertained their boring families. Probably. He snorted at the exact moment Moriarty dropped into the bench next to him.

'Sherlock.' Nothing more. Sherlock stared straight ahead, his breathing coming fast and harsh, loud in the silence of the park, aware of how alone they were, Jim's proximity, the space between them, his sweaty palms. Moriarty studied him, silently, and Sherlock turned to look at him. 'I, I need,' and Jim silenced him with his mouth, kissed him, chaste, flicked his tongue against his lips as he pulled away, a tease, just a tease.

'You left me.' An accusation. Moriarty smiled, and there wasn't one thing about it that wasn't sinister, ugly. 'You tried to kill me. And save John.' John's name a sneer. 'I'd say we're even.' Sherlock leaned over, leaned into Moriarty's neck, and inhaled deeply, giddy, and there it was again, that joy, at seeing this psychopath. God. He really was fucked.

'Look at you, all sentimental. Like some girl I fucked but didn't love.' Sherlock drew away at this, half smile on his face, and Jim laughed, reaching up and smoothing his hand across Sherlock's cheek. 'Like satin over steel. There is no-one like you in the world, Sherlock Holmes. Why would you doubt me?' Sherlock's smile slipped just slightly, even as he leaned into the touch, even as he shifted his body to press his side against Jim's. 'You left it a long time. Eleven weeks between dates. I don't, date, but I don't know. Is that normal?'

'Nothing about you and I is 'normal', Sherlock. Not one thing. Now, come with me.' Jim stood, pulling Sherlock up by his hands, leading him through the park, towards the road, towards a Bentley, a red one. S2, Sherlock thought, but couldn't tell enough in the dark. Once ensconced in the back seat, Jim slid in next to him, and the car took off, partition coming up to block them off from the chauffeur. They didn't say anything. Didn't need to waste words, now. Not now they'd made up. Sherlock smiled, and leaned forwards, pulling Moriarty into him by his dark blue lapels. He kissed him like it was his dying wish, and Moriarty responded violently, biting Sherlock's tongue, lips, chin, sucking at his mouth, tongue, groaning like a man possessed into the shell of Sherlock's ear seconds before biting the lobe, hard. Sherlock pushed him away, across the slick leather, into the side of the car, and leaned in, over, down, pinning the shorter man underneath him, rutting into his calves, into the leather, as he continued to kiss the breath out of him, out of Jim.

They pulled up at somewhere, and Jim noticed the lack of motion way before Sherlock, who was approaching incoherence, rare. When they were out of the car, Moriarty grabbed a handful of the back of Sherlock's Belstaff coat, and pulled him, backwards, into the open doorway. Sherlock logged on autopilot; big garden, not quite country home, well out of London, marble, gravel, definitely an S2, stairs, cherry wood, wallpaper not paint expensive but not Laura Ashley, good. Door, shut, locked, turned, Jim. His coat hit the floor, as did his shirt, and Moriarty attacked his chest, licked, bit down on his nipples too hard, dropped to his knees to wrench at Sherlock's trousers, cock pulsing, hard, aching, pressing against the zip enough to cause pain, some pain, not entirely unpleasant. Then his trousers were down his thighs, past his knees, off. Shoes, socks, gone. He was completely naked, and Moriarty moved back, fully away, to look at him.

Disappeared into a side room, leaving Sherlock to look around. Four poster, antiques, rugs. Fireplace. Books, everywhere. Jim came back and the room faded, into nothing. He had a camera, and Sherlock moaned, audibly.

'I'll do anything you want, Jim, if you let me have one photograph of you. One.'

'Interesting offer. Tell me, dear heart. Why?'

'Because if this is it, if you go. Well.'

'I see. We'll see.'

He led Sherlock by the hand, to his bed, and Sherlock lay down, hand trailing to his cock absently. Moriarty hissed, taking photo after photo. Sherlock on his knees, on his back. Fisting his cock, sucking his fingers. Sucking Moriarty's cock, swallowing it. Sherlock covered in Jim's come, his cheeks, his lips painted with his slick ejaculate. Then. Moriarty on all fours. A video clip of Jim begging Sherlock to 'fuck him, to stop pissing about with his fingers and lube and fucking fuck him up the arse now', and then Sherlock threw the camera to one side and yanked Moriarty up and over, onto his back. 'I want to watch your eyes when I make you come. Again.' And Moriarty moaned, for the first time, unchecked, and Sherlock couldn't take it, pushed in gently, back out gently, setting an agonisingly slow pace, seeing if he could make Jim snap. And he did, forcing back, his silken voice spewing forth a litany of filth. 'Your cock, so big, so hard, come in me, fuck me, I need it, I want to lick it out of your mouth, after you suck it out of my arse. I knew you wanted this, wanted my fucking cock, my body, wanted me. Jesus Sherlock, you look so fucking good like this, like a god, like a fucking GOD, but if you don't fuck me harder I will kill you. I have killed before, sweetheart. Not an idle threat.'

And Sherlock laughed, slamming back in, leaning down to kiss Jim tenderly, in opposition to his pistoning hips, driving in harder and harder, his back crying out with the strain, his thighs quivering as he held himself up, held Moriarty's thighs around his hips. He soon lost his rhythm, watching Moriarty's face as the man came, hard but silently, aware of hot come smearing his chest a handful of thrusts before he too came, hard, buried to the root in Moriarty's hot body, pulsing stream after stream of come into him. Pulling out, sitting down for a beat, getting his breath back. Moriarty came down soon after, and Sherlock sneered, pulling the man to the edge of the bed by his legs and licking, sucking at the come leaking from Moriarty's slack arsehole. Leaning up and kissing him, forcing his come into Moriarty's mouth, drawing his second moan from the man, desire shooting through him again, so soon.

It was three days later when he got home, to find Lestrade waiting for him, with John. Neither man mentioned his disappearance again after he told them it was something to do with Mycroft. Idiots. They had a case for him. Apparently, someone was planning some amazing theft of a great deal of gold, and Sherlock was going to have to stop him. They'd left a note.

I'm going to steal all the gold from the BOE. Gold is too sentimental.'

Sherlock's hand strayed to his breast pocket. Photo, of Jim. Obscene. Sentiment was a beautiful thing. He smiled.

Hi. Ok, the line, 'save your mind for better things' is Conan Doyles, he wrote about killing off Sherlock, as are the characters. I like Bentleys and cliches. the pips thing is Greenwich, Winn Common, 26th June, Midnight. Obvious kinda but not. Be kind, I kinda like this one. Thank you for reading. Please don't sue me.


End file.
